Page 52 of The Golden Hour

Tugging my hat down, I head for the trail.

27

Finn and I barely speak on the hike back to the car, and on the drive home he keeps the music too loud for conversation. All of which is fine by me. I have enough complications in my head and heart without him in the mix. Confusing, temperamental, annoyingly attractive man.

When he drops me off, in lieu of a goodbye he reminds me to secure him the coveted invite to family dinner. To, you know, move things along. He won’t look me in the eye when he says it, and speeds away before I can tell him about the text message Vivian sent to the family twenty minutes ago. Too bad for him, I’m feeling petty enough to leave him in the dark as to its contents.

The following morning, I’m still not feeling charitable toward Finn, so I don’t text or call him after saying goodbye to Vivian.

She’s leaving for two weeks of campaigning. In other words, greasing hands and pulling fingernails. While the former is all too likely, the latter is figurative. Hopefully. Then again, she is taking Enzo. Like Vivian confirming that my father had Anthony killed, I wouldn’t be the least surprised if it were revealed Enzo pulled the trigger.

There’s no spirit in his eyes. No kindness or any form of humanity I recognize. He’s always been that way, too. I don’t know what happened to make him so cold and hard, whether it was through personal tragedy or choice. I’m not sure I care, as long as he stays away from me and my sisters.

Lizzie and I are to remain in the house with a reduced staff, though Vivian said Franco would be coming and going. A clear warning that we shouldn’t be entertaining any guests or otherwise doing anything we’re not supposed to. We’re also not allowed to leave the premises without approval. If we do leave, we’re restricted to a driving service. Both edicts are familiar. Standard practice for our ultra-paranoid family.

Before they left, I asked Vivian about visiting the ranch. Her answer was dismissive. “We’ll talk when I get back.”

“I can go alone,” I suggested.

Enzo scowled, answering before Vivian could, “Paint your nails or get a tan or something. Leave the business to the adults.”

And that was that.

Vivian’s parting words for me were that her concierge doctor would be stopping by this morning to give me a physical.

So here I sit, waiting for the doctor on an embroidered bench in the foyer, frowning up at the painting of my father.

As frustrated as Finn will be when he finds out he has to wait another two weeks for introductions to the family, I’m just as frustrated I have to wait to visit my uncle’s ranch.

Maybe Vivian lied and there’s nothing there. Maybe she just wanted to see my reaction. Maybe she knows exactly why I came back.

Paranoia apples don’t fall far from the tree.

I’m also thinking about Detective Wilson. Her card lives in the same vent as my burner phone. The edges are bent, the text nearly blurred from running my thumb over it. I’ve read the handwritten cell number on the back so many times that it’s a permanent mental fixture.

I spent most of yesterday coming to a conclusion—when I get to the ranch and find whatever it is Vivian wants, I’m going to call Detective Wilson and hand it over, come what may.

Friday night with Molly and Finn—and even parts of the hike yesterday—brought into sharp relief how poisonous my brief time home has been. Though neither said it outright, I could see the worry in Molly’s eyes and knew it was for good reason. My appetite is gone, the clothes purchased recently already loose. I sleep fitfully and little, the dark circles under my eyes a daily reminder.

Every day I feel closer to a meltdown. Too many lies, secrets, and fears. I’m choking on the bread and butter of my family. The fresh air and space yesterday was nice, but not enough. Like a Band-Aid on a severed finger.

Looking up at my father’s jovial expression—one he never wore in my lifetime—I whisper, “Maybe I’m too much like my mother. She couldn’t survive in this family, either.”

“Are you all right, miss?”

I yelp, my hands flinging to my chest. My gaze jerks across the foyer to Selina. “Jesus, you scared me.”

She smiles an apology. “It’s my sneakers. Miss Vivian bought them for me because my old ones squeaked. Silent as a mouse now.”

I smile wanly. “Yes, you are.”

She gestures to the bench. “May I?”

“Of course.”

She sits beside me, smelling faintly of the lavender and vinegar cleaning solution Vivian likes. Glancing at me, she murmurs conspiratorially, “I rather like it when Miss Vivian is gone. Not that I slack on my duties, but we’re normally not allowed to sit during our shift.”

I blink in surprise. “That’s ludicrous.”

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